Chapter 16: Allies, Enemies, Other

Still waters run deep.

- Proverb


Knockdown's remark did not so much stir up a debate as set off a powder keg. Airachnid threw any remaining reservations about the strangers to the wind and demanded to know why Knockdown deserved to add not one, but two new bots under his command, in a time when new recruits were an exceedingly rare resource indeed.

"You already have three medics! Meanwhile I'm left with an ever shrinking handful of half-trained Citizens," she snarled.

"A 'handful', Airachnid? I know you have at least fifty. I know it well, since I'm constantly patching them up."

"Fifty to patrol a starship, plus the whole slagging planet!"

Knockdown half-closed his optics. "You'll have even less if they don't survive surgery. The medical bay is understaffed, as anyone could tell you." He cast a glance towards Starscream, but the black Seeker was looking on with a neutral expression, her fingers laced together.

Airachnid crossed her arms. "If the ship is overrun, you won't have your precious med bay anymore."

"An unlikely scenario at the moment. Whereas mechs coming back from patrol with missing limbs is a frequent and unpleasant reality." Knockdown looked to Starscream again. "You remember that incident last month, Air Commander . . . ?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. The energon deposit in the southern hemisphere. We had a run-in with Arcee and, who was it now, Smokescreen. Most unfortunate." Starscream tapped her thumbs together. "All the same, Doctor, we don't want to be too hasty in allocating our resources."

Knockdown didn't move, just stared at her steadily. His optics might have widened a fraction.

Airachnid looked utterly floored, then chuckled richly. "Oh dear, Knockdown. It would seem your ally has switched sides." Beside her Skyquake let out a faint, wondering grumble beneath his breath.

"Really, Airachnid," Starscream said with a prim twist of her mouth. "There are no 'sides' here; I am simply being logical. We do already have four medics, after all—"

Knockdown's voice was calm but flat, his wings cresting even higher than usual. "Yes, four medics. Myself, two rookies we chipped out of the ice, and a psychologist whose time is increasingly monopolized by a side project." His optics flicked pointedly towards Soundwave before meeting Starscream's again. The tips of his claws rested lightly on the table as he leaned forward. "I need these bots."

"Don't you think that having another you in the medical bay will be rather disconcerting, Doctor?" Starscream inquired.

"I highly doubt anyone will confuse me with Knock Out."

Skyquake gave a snicker. "Gotta agree with that one. Look, there's two bots . . . Why don't you and Airachnid each take one?"

Megatron shifted at the head of the table; it was like watching a mountain stir.

"Or perhaps," he said, gravely, "we should ask Bumblebee and Knock Out what they would prefer." He looked around the table. "All the energon we have spilled, all the comrades we have lost—the death of our very planet—it was for this choice. For there to be a choice."

Various pairs of blue optics dropped to the table or the floor.

"Well, of course I was going to say we should ask them," Airachnid muttered.

Knockdown looked down wordlessly, frowning at his fingertips, still spread on the tabletop.

Skyquake, despite his minimal role in the debate, just looked embarrassed.

And Starscream simply nodded, completely unperturbed. "Of course we should. I'll arrange interviews with each of them, Lord Megatron."

"I wish," Megatron said with a growl, "that you wouldn't call me that."

Starscream ignored this remark. Someone had to remind him who he was, and the task inevitably fell to her. "I take it we are in agreement that Bumblebee and Knock Out should stay? A show of hands for, please?"

The motion carried (after a moment of hesitation on Airachnid's part and after nudging Soundwave back to reality to get his yea or nay) unanimously. The meeting broke up without fanfare.


The two of them paused in the corridor outside the meeting room.

"Doctor."

"Air Commander."

"Walk with me."

"As you wish."

The corridor they turned down was one of the rare promenades featuring windows, although the dark blue world wavering outside could barely be discerned; with a dark background outside and the lights on inside, the plexiglass simply reflected the interior of the ship. The chain of windows showed the bots' progression in sequence: the rangy black-and—gold Seeker with her wings lifting and falling in time to the precise clicks of her heels while the cyan Seeker, shorter and more compact, trotted along taking half again as many steps in order to keep up with her strides.

Starscream stopped on the observation deck. Despite being surrounded by a dome of windows, the outside world was no more visible here than in the corridor. She made a show of surveying the scenery anyway, as though the window displayed more than her own likeness, half hollowed by the darkness pressing in against the glass.

She angled a look down at the medic. "You're upset."

Knockdown, also feigning an interest in the view, crossed his arms. That the gesture lacked vehemence did not make it any less significant.

"You're very upset."

"Should I not be?"

"Indeed not; you should be proud. You saved two lives and gained two new recruits."

"Two recruits whom you clearly intend to hand over to Airachnid."

"Nonsense. It will be their own choice, just as Lord Megatron says."

Knockdown didn't snort, but he did give a prolonged sniff. "And who will be offering the 'choice' and laying out the options to them? You, no doubt. And you, Commander Starscream, could talk a grounder into driving straight off a cliff."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was not intended as one."

"As Second-in-Command I must act for the greater good, Knockdown."

"Yes, I'm sure you have your reasons. You always do."

"I'm not sure, Doctor, that I like your tone."

"My tone has been nothing but reasonable."

And of course that was true, Primus damn the mech. "Your words, then."

"Then order me to stop speaking, Air Commander."

Starscream massaged her brow with her spidery fingers as she vented a long sigh. "I do wish you'd just snarl and shout like the rest of them." She clasped her hands behind her back, pacing. Her reflection paced with her.

Knockdown lifted his chin, arms crossed and wings rampant as his eyes followed her. "'You scratch my back, I scratch yours.' That's what you said when you wanted the medical team, my medical team, to become a wing of your Armada. You failed to mention that your scratches leave furrows."

Starscream wheeled towards him. "Don't pretend that you haven't benefited, Knockdown. Do you miss having five teams comming you at once, all certain that they are the most in need of your help, all babbling panicked nonsense in your audial? Or flying over the battlefield yourself, searching for the injured while mechs bleed out below you? It was so utterly inefficient. You are our most skilled and experienced medic; you should be tending the wounded, not wasting your time with command decisions."

"I am still the Chief Medical Officer, Starscream, and I do make command decisions."

Starscream's wings rose and dipped in acknowledgement. "Command decisions unrelated to medical matters, I should have said," she corrected herself. "Well? Do you miss it? If so, I will gladly release you from the Armada."

"The Armada is not the problem. Being at your beck and call is not the problem. You direct us reasonably well on the battlefield." His fingers tightened on his arms. "What happened in the conference room today, that is the problem."

"Now Knockdown." Starscream smiled appealingly, utilizing her please-be-reasonable voice. "Do you really want two greenhorn grounders stumbling around your medical bay? And Airachnid has need of them—"

"I have need of them!" His vocalizer lowered and hissed with static. "And if you had stayed neutral, stayed out of the discussion, that would've been one thing. When have I ever begged for favors, Starscream? But to take her side—"

"Enough."

"'You scratch my back, I scratch yours.' I wasn't the one who said it, Commander."

"I said enough." This time her voice was sharp enough to silence him. He turned on his heel—a structure not quite so impressive as one of Starscream's—and stalked over to stare out the window. Starscream let him simmer a good while before speaking. "If your service in the Armada chafes so much—"

"The Armada, the Armada." Knockdown rolled his eyes. "I want—need—more medics. This has nothing to do with the Armada."

"My dear doctor." Starscream's expression was somewhere between despairing and amused. "Such tunnel vision. Do you pay attention to anything besides your medical bay and your staff, I wonder?"

"Yes. My patients."

"Just as you say." She studied the smaller flier. She could normally read Seekers through their wings, but Knockdown habitually kept his pulled stiff and high above his shoulders, as immobile as a grounder's grill and as cryptic as his white, enamel face. But even so, she thought she detected a tension in his frame that was not wholly due to his bout of temper.

Starscream spoke slowly and carefully. "You said, a moment ago, that you wanted more staff. And then that you needed more. Tell me truly, Doctor: which is it really?"

Knockdown exhaled, shuttering his optics. His face was as flawlessly smooth as ever, but the way his eyebrows pushed towards each other made him look tired. "Need. We're in a bad way, Starscream."

"Trauma and the twins—"

"Trauma is competent and the twins are well-intentioned, but—"

"'Well-intentioned,' dear me. As bad as all that?"

The corner of Knockdown's mouth twitched just slightly. "They'll be good someday. But we can't wait for 'someday'." Slight as it was, the smile faded. "That device Arcee had last time—"

"The sonic blaster."

"Yes. It was . . . devastating. Within thirty seconds I had ten injured troopers to tend, seven severely wounded. Three died. That's not counting the five others who were immediately killed by the device. Killed by one Autobot."

Starscream nodded slowly. "I see where your difficulty lies, Doctor. You feel if you had more staff—"

"With one more pair of hands," he said, "I could have saved those three troopers." He reached out, hand resting on the dark glass in front of him, palm to palm with his reflection. He looked up at Starscream, the calm of his voice almost unbearable. "Just one more pair."

"I take it that the bot you really want is, in fact, Knock Out."

After a moment, Knockdown turned towards her and nodded.

"You know, Doctor, just because he shares the same CNA as you doesn't mean he'll make a good medic. You yourself said that medical skills are learned, not inherited."

"I know what I said. I also know talent when I see it. Whether it's due to instinct, instruction, or programming, I really don't care."

"Of course you don't," murmured Starscream. "But don't forget he's a new-build. We've only been here about three or four Earth years, and I doubt if he is even half that old. Is it really ethical to expose someone so young to a parade of war wounds?"

That made Knockdown pause, his mouth scrunched slightly in thought.

Starscream pressed on. "Why not take on one of the Citizens as an apprentice instead? Someone from the Northern Sky Patrol, for example. They're overstaffed right now."

Knockdown shook his head. "We'd have to take a medic off of active duty to train them."

"But Knock Out—"

"—clearly knows the rudiments of first aid already. And more." The staunch job on his arm had been frankly astounding. Professional, Knockdown would've said, if it hadn't been for the sheer brutality of the torn cables and gutted casing. "It would be criminal to waste that kind of talent, Air Commander. And Trauma will watch his mental health."

"Well . . ." Starscream crossed her arms, her wings flexing slightly. "But a grounder."

Knockdown turned away, to the window, his expression smoothing to something blank and remote.

Starscream felt annoyed with herself. That had been clumsy, and now he was taking it the wrong way, and no wonder. "Not that I'm implying they can't do the work, of course, I'm just concerned about how he'll keep up with you on the battlefield—"

"It will be a long time before I let him into the field. He'll be assisting around the med bay at first," Knockdown's voice was cool, distant. "Like Brakeline used to."

Oh scrap. She made her voice upbeat. "And I'm sure he will . . . be just as efficient."

"Moreso, I hope. Brakeline dropped things quite a bit. Large hands." Knockdown's mouth twisted sideways, somewhere between a smile and a grimace, and Starscream could see the tips of his nails digging into the cyan blue armor of his arms. "Anything else?"

"Ah, yes." She spoke briskly, eager to switch to another topic. "How soon will Knock Out be up to a little chat? I'd like to get this sorted out as soon as possible."

"Any time." Knockdown turned away from the window, possibly relaxing slightly, although it was hard to tell. "He's mending well and frankly he's getting bored."

"And Bumblebee?" Let him take that question as he might, about Bumblebee's health or his potential as a medic. Starscream felt greatly disinclined to put both grounders on the medical team, one was bound to be trouble enough, but after her gaffe it might be necessary to keep the peace . . .

The cyan medic considered. "He seems to be more of the . . . active type. He'd probably be happier under Airachnid's command, or Skyquake's . . ."

"Hmm, Skyquake. That's a possibility. Come, Doctor." Her heels clicked towards the door. "We'll discuss this further on the way to the lab."

"As you wish."


Knock Out had been surprised and gratified to find both halves of his electro-staff tucked away in a corner of the lab. He didn't retrieve them, just noted their presence for future use.

He had been less gratified to see one of the "Citizens" in the lab, standing in front of the door to the Auxiliary. He had listened closely to Knockdown and Trauma on the way back; it sounded like the events of Bumblebee's interrogation had ranged from "violent" to "cautiously sociable."

He had not been gratified at all when Trauma still refused to remove his stasis cuff. ("I'll ask Doc after he's out of the officers' meeting, I promise.")

Grin and bear it, Knock Out. Grin and bear it. At least he didn't chain you up like a turbohound this time. The pressure in his processor had cleared up too. You had to be thankful for small favors, because sometimes those were the only ones you got.

He leaned back against the row of counters, watching Trauma chat with the Vehicon before dismissing it. (No one would convince Knock Out it was anything but a Vehicon; he knew those frames, had patched them and welded them and dissected them a hundred times and more.) Finally he turned to 1001 Sudoku Puzzles.

"This is what desperation looks like," he muttered to himself as he accessed a game and tapped against the screen. The numbers changed accordingly. Five . . . seven . . . one—no, a two . . .

"Would you like to talk with Bumblebee? He's awake now."

Knock Out looked and saw Trauma (familiar, unpleasant jolt) smiling at him. Guilt was clearly layered just under the smile; apparently this was Trauma's attempt to make up for the stasis cuff.

"Of course I would! Of course!" Bedside chats with an Autobot. What a treat.

He didn't even look at Trauma as he tapped in the code for the door. (Knock Out had already discovered, to his amusement, that it was the same numerical code he used on the Nemesis, only backwards.) Instead he focused squarely on the blank, grey door in front of him, fighting the urge fidget. From what he'd gathered, Bumblebee had indeed used the "clone" cover story. He could only hope that the Autobot wouldn't blurt out something hopelessly out-of-character and Autobot-like the moment he walked in the room. Autobot-ish. Autobot-y? Well, whatever.

Bumblebee looked up as the door slid open. Like Knock Out, he was no longer tied down or chained up, aside from a loose-hanging stasis cuff off one wrist. Trauma entered first, picking a handheld scanner off the little table and moving around the berth.

"Hello, Bumblebee," he said in a kindly tone. "I've brought someone to see you."

"What do you—"

"Bumblebee!" Knock Out strode in and gripped the side rail. "Glad to see they've patched you up!"

"Knock Out." Bumblebee got a grip on the wariness in his voice and tried again. "Knock Out! So good to see you! Yes, the Decepticons have really helped me out!" He raised his hand and, after a wavering a little, gingerly patted Knock Out's servo.

"Good. Good. Gooood." Knock Out snatched his hand away and settled himself in one of the chairs against the wall. "And . . . how are you feeling, my f—" No, no, too soon to jibe him about being a 'fellow clone'. "—ffffffriend?"

"I'm feeling fine. How about you?"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Right."

And that seemed to cover everything they could possibly say while in audial range of Trauma, who was now noting the results of the scan on a chart.

Knock Out aimed a haughty stare at the lavender jet. He didn't say anything, but 'Do you MIND?' was written all over his face.

Trauma looked taken aback. "I'll just, uh, step out for a minute . . . yes." He backed out, but left the door open.

Knock Out frowned. After a moment he dragged the chair closer to the berth, so close that his knees were nearly hitting the side of it. "So?" he asked, his voice casual and low.

"So? So what?"

"Sooo, how'd the Q&A go?"

"I used your stupid story. And they bought it. My faith in the intelligence of the Cybertronian race is shattered forever."

"Shut up." He kept a smile on his face as his said it, posture casual, in case Trauma was looking. The doorway was behind him; he could have been looking. "Walls have ears."

"What's on the datapad?"

"Sudoku." He handed it over.

"Boxes. And numbers."

Knock Out started to explain the rules.

"Wait. This is supposed to be a game?"

"Yes, it is." Knock Out found he was annoyed. And he didn't even like Sudoku.

"Ugh." The black and yellow bot pushed the datapad back to Knock Out. "So. Now what?"

"Do they like you?"

"The Decepticons? Yes. I think so. We had a few tense moments, but . . . I think so."

"Good." Knock Out tilted his chair back, brought his feet up, and braced his pedes against the side of the berth. The chair's runners scraped across the floor as he pushed away from the bed. He leaned his elbow on the little table by the wall as he stifled a yawn. "Now," he said, resting his chin on his hand, "we wait."

He was asleep within minutes. Bumblebee stared at him, then at the ceiling, the floor, and his own servos before giving in and reaching for the datapad. Time for some Sudoku.


A/N: Sudoku . . . that thing you do when there's nothing else to do.

I may rename this chapter at some point, I couldn't think of anything that fit perfectly.